Will To Power
by krisnreine
Summary: It will strive to grow, spread, seize, become predominant - not from any morality or immorality but because it is living and because life simply is will to power... Irina's metamorphosis from extracted KGB agent to The Man. Originally posted at SD-1.
1. Introduction

_I originally wrote this story in 2000-whateverall. I made the recent realization that most of my writing was trapped on the hard drive of my long abandoned desktop computer._

_After a rescue mission, I decided to post some of my old work just to "save" it, should the files end up lost again. _

_Will To Power was my love letter to Irina Derevko. In that amazing second season she was a wonderfully complex character - so hard to pin down. Fascinating and brutal and gorgeous and powerful and broken and lonely. So many corners to investigate. _

_So here we are._

Will To Power.


	2. 1 - Baba Yaga

**I. Baba Yaga** – _Goddess of death and regeneration_

Her life began and ended on the same day.

In the twisting of metal, a world filled with the grinding shriek of steel being wrenched beyond its limits. A celebration of death amidst the lethal confetti of broken glass.

Baptized in her own blood, washed away by the murky water of the churning lake.

She was dead.

She swam for an hour, away from the site of the crash, towards Russia. Or, more specifically, towards the man who would take her back to Russia.

In chains, without dignity.

A traitor.

Sirens wailed, cutting through the night. They sounded like a screaming child, rent from beautiful dreams by the reality of a nightmare.

She was awake, now. Awake and dead.

Staring out over the darkened surface of her watery grave, there was nothing but numbness. The cool California breeze chilled her wet clothes, forming them to her body in an icy shell. Her hair was wrapped around her throat in clammy fingers.

She was turned in on herself, her arms tucked protectively against her middle, her chin dipping against her chest. Only her eyes were upturned, watching the black water lap against the shore at her feet. She was exhausted, leaning against a tree.

Still, she felt nothing. Just the numbness of the limbo between an old life and an even older one.

A dark pit yawned in her chest, a mortal wound that she knew she would carry with her for the rest of her days. It felt clichéd to say she lost her heart; how can one lose what they never had to begin with?

There was a crackle of sound off to the right and Alexander Khasinau stepped into the moonlit clearing. His eyes were hooded shadows, but she knew they were searching her.

"U tyebya vsyo v aryadke?" He asked, reaching a hand out to touch her. He ignored her flinch, feeling ice beneath his fingertips.

"Yes." She didn't bother with Russian, but caught his look of derision and sighed in exasperation. "Dah."

"Are you ready to go?"

Her stony silence was his only answer. He reached out and wrapped steely fingers around her chilled flesh and urged her to follow him. He half-expected her to lag behind, to pull back, but she followed obediently, easily keeping pace.

He had parked a good distance from the extraction location, cursing the out of state plates that made the usually non-descript sedan stand out. He opened the passenger door and she slid in without comment, her eyes straight forward.

So much the good little soldier, he knew. Her spine was straight, eyes dead ahead, chin tilted at an almost defiant angle. It would serve her well to remember the circumstances of her extraction.

"You shouldn't have resisted." He said finally, glancing sideways at her rigid profile when they were well on their way.

"I didn't resist. My job wasn't completed."

"We've had enough information to successfully recreate Project Christmas for a year now. What more could you possibly have gotten from him?"

"He was making changes to the protocols." She answered impassively. "He was preparing to implement it in a year. The results would have been priceless."

"Is that what this is about, Ira? " His tone was soft and non-threatening, but it tore at her anyway. "Results? The project?"

"Yes." Not candy-coated baby kisses, or long, sweaty nights. Not Saturday morning waffles, or three-day weekends in San Francisco.

It had nothing to do with a life she wasn't supposed to have at all.

"It was smart of you to agree to extraction before they were forced to make threats." Khasinau noted, heading east. They would fly out from Nevada and bounce around the country before meeting the private jet waiting for them in a small airfield in Montana.

Irina didn't answer him, holding the silence around her like a cloak.

Threats were as good as actions. She wouldn't wait around until they decided to scare her into coming home. She wouldn't wait for her daughter to show up in a body bag.

_Ira_, her mother had once said. _You make your own fate. Don't wait around for someone to make it for you._

They were words she would live by, always. She couldn't change the fact that she lived a lie for ten years. Could not change biology and give Sydney the mother she deserved. She couldn't change her identity and become the woman Jack gave his soul to.

What she could do, what she would do, was set them free. She wouldn't shackle them to her, as much as she wouldn't give up what she loved. She tried to tell herself that it was the act of a courageous woman to let them go, to leave them.

Her mother's heavily accented voice swirled around her head and Irina watched the horizon in silence.

_You will make your own fate, Ira, and you will meet it._

_And you will live._

***

The silence stretched on as they crisscrossed the United States in a wayward pattern. By the time they reached Montana, Irina was dizzy from jetlag and the constant travel. The heartache she expected to overtake her never came, replaced by a weary resignation to face her future, and the determination to do it without flinching.

Khasinau, for his part, spent the time watching her warily. He had known her well before she was sent to the US for her mission. They'd had sex sporadically, never anything more than a bit of drunken revelry after a particularly difficult exam or mission. But he felt as if he didn't know her anymore. The woman across from him was devoid of the vitality she used to possess. The will to live, to create, to dominate, to win.

"You'll more than likely be sent to Kashmir after the committee is through with you." He said finally and she turned liquid eyes to his.

"Oh?" Her tone was disinterested but he thought he caught a spark of fear in her eyes before she looked away.

"Unless you have anything more concrete to share with them..." He trailed off, his eyes pleaded with her to have something.

"There's nothing more. Another year, perhaps…"

"Another year and you would have died!" He exploded. "Already, you're gone! Look at you! A shadow, a second-generation copy of your former self. He would have killed you completely. A good American housewife. That's not who you are!

"You're a good agent, Irina. And you threw that away."

"I'm still a good agent." Her words became fierce. "I did everything they asked of me. Everything. Twelve men executed. I did that. Valuable information stolen. I did that."

"A five year-old child without a mother. You did that, too."

"Because they asked me to."

"Asked you to leave her. Demanded that you never create her in the first place." He watched her eyes narrow and pin him with a cold gaze. There was no regret in her stare. "Your body, your decision?"

"Go to hell."

"You're going to prison. A traitor. You'll go to hell."

"Then I'll go to prison." She considered the conversation over and turned away, preparing to nap for a few hours until they stopped to refuel. What he didn't understand and likely never would was that, for the first time, she *wasn't* a prisoner. Whatever else happened, whatever chains they would try to encase her in, she would be free.

She had to be.


	3. 2 - Chernobog

**CHERNOBOG** - _The Black God, the god of night, the god of Hell, the bringer of evil luck, the god of infernal darkness._

He led her through the labyrinthine hallways of a building she hadn't seen in over a decade. People stared as she passed, obviously surprised to see the mythical Derevko back in their midst. So far as they knew, her mission had been a blinding success. Lauded as their most valuable agent, she set the bar high for long-term information gathering. Once her superiors were finished raking her ravaged soul across the coals, they would make her teach.

Bright-eyed girls, much as she had been, would come to her to learn.

How do I sell myself to the highest bidder? How do I lie, steal, cheat, kill, fuck and keep my soul?

You don't, she'd tell them. But if you're lucky, you'll find someone…or two someones…who will give it back to you. Then you'll be forced to leave, to save them from the poison in your love. You'll find that your ideology and your heart have become diametrically opposed. What you'll do with yourself in that dark place is anybody's guess.

Her long strides matched Khasinau's as he took her deeper and deeper into the heart of Russia's security agency. Irina straightened the tweed sport coat and smoothed at her hair as she walked. She had pulled the mass into a knot at the nape of her neck, completing the severe picture of a dedicated KGB agent.

She was, after all, a mistress of disguise.

"Fancy clothes won't change what you are." Khasinau hissed as he pushed her towards the room.

"A KGB whore?" She asked flippantly.

"A traitor."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes at him when they entered the room. A traitor. He never tired of saying that to her.

Yes, she was traitorous. She betrayed everything, every last thing, she had been taught to believe in. And some things she'd only recently learned to believe in.

She wasn't surprised to see a camera set up. They would, of course, tape the debriefing. At least, they would tape the parts of it they wanted to make sure they could use in the future. She knew the gloves would come off and the game would officially start when the camera went dark. She felt a thrill of anticipation for the battle set before her.

She seated herself primly at the table, allowing a small victorious smirk creep onto her face when her gaze settled on Khasinau.

He would conduct the first part of the interview. The easy questions. Details of when, where, why and how. The part that would be taped, stored and kept in case she was ever foolish enough to attempt to defect. The American government would adore the chance to put her away for her treasonous acts. She was being asked to provide all the evidence they would need to have her put to death if she ever returned.

Khasinau began by asking her to state her name. When she spoke, the words were heavily accented, almost unrecognizable as English. Khasinau shot her a strange look but she merely smiled beatifically and answered him.

"My Russian or American name?"

"Uh, why not both?" Khasinau was put off his stride by her obedience, her willingness to answer his questions so honestly. He had expected resistance from her, as she had been bordering antagonistic since her extraction. What he got was a woman playing the part of the dedicated Russian nationalist to perfection.

"Irina Derevko and Laura Bristow."

"When were you recruited for special duties?" The day was vivid in her mind, the flush of excitement still palpable. The thrill of power and domination easily won her over, a marginalized young girl in a sexist regime. She refused to acknowledge what she knew in her gut. She was a government sanctioned whore, useful only for what was between her legs. Her talent was in her curves, her feline smile, her toned muscles. The rest could be taught, but they needed her femininity.

"In 1970 I was recruited to the KGB by you, Alexander Khasinau." She'd thank him later, in various and sundry ways. She let herself briefly imagine her revenge. A garrot. A well-aimed blow. A single bullet to his heart.

"Describe the objective of your operation."

This was the meat of why she'd been brought here and she would not disappoint. She pulled the microphone closer and tried to bite back a smile. Her superiors would think she was simply proud of her work, eager to share her success. "Phase one – I was to pose as an American, a student of literature. Phase two – I was to make the acquaintance of a particular officer in the central intelligence agency. To insinuate myself into his life, to become his confidante, earn his trust."

"Please state the officer by name." A deft move and his eyes glittered dangerously. They dared her to say his name. They dared her not to stumble on the words, to have them catch in her throat. She met the stare in challenge.

"Officer Jonathan Donahue Bristow." She was proud that she didn't fumble, that her voice didn't catch in remorse. She felt her strength returning and she repositioned herself in the chair more comfortably.

"Phase three?"

"Phase three. I was to begin to acquire from various means, details about the CIA operation to which Bristow was assigned. Project Christmas."

"You have no reason to believe that anyone else became suspicious of you?" She was almost offended by the question. Her execution had been flawless, that they knew. Nobody suspected her. She'd made especially sure of that.

"Nyet. Of course, I would have told you." He grimaced at her words, not because they were lies but because they were truth. She had never once failed to provide the KGB with information. Not once.

"How did you acquire your intel?"

"Every night for ten years, I went through his briefcase. I eavesdropped on all his private conversations. I planted listening devices on his clothing. He was blinded by his emotions. He knew nothing." She paused, planning her next words. She knew where this tape was headed, who would eventually see it. She only prayed that it was sooner rather than later. His hatred would eat away his sorrow and he, too, would be free.

"I can tell you one thing. Jack Bristow was a fool."

There was silence in the room and Khasinau reached back to flip off the camera. Irina's eyes twinkled when she leaned back, a satisfied smirk on her face. It dimmed only a little when Khasinau stood and made his way around the table.

Her chair rocked back under the force of his blow, his signet ring making a deep gash when he backhanded her cheek. She bolted upward, knocking the chair over completely.

"Don't ever touch me again, Alexander. Or I will kill you."

"That will be difficult from where you're headed." He indicated to the man standing silently by the door. "Antics like this won't save your husband." He spit out the word vehemently. "Or that bastard child of yours."

Irina lunged and with power he hadn't realized she possessed, she placed a well-aimed blow in the dead center of his face. Blood gushed immediately, a crimson fall staining his shirt. He bubbled through a scream and fell backwards, falling hard enough to knock himself cold when his head slammed into the corner of the table.

Irina stood quietly as the two guards charged her and slammed her into the wall, using extra force to make their point. A waist chain and leg irons were pulled out and she stood by complacently as she was locked into them.

"Your interrogation begins tomorrow." One warned her, and they dragged her roughly from the room, ordering a medic for Khasinau.

It was the last thing she would ever do with passion, without forethought. And it was worth it.

***

A year later, she wouldn't recall with any kind of clarity what happened to her for the first month of her time in Kashmir. The Russian government was at the top of its field at finding effective interrogation techniques, leaning heavily towards psychological torture rather than physical. No guard touched her inappropriately, no man invaded her space. She was allowed to wash in privacy, being the only woman housed in the facility, and she spent her exercise period alone. She wasn't allowed, or forced, to mix with the male prison population.

Her meals were decent for what they were, although she rarely ate.

Their questions were always the same with small variations. Was she a traitor? Who did she tell? Who was she working for?

Her answers never changed. No, nobody, the KGB.

They began bringing in ghastly images of her hits, demanding details of each one. What information had she gathered? Had they screamed? Did she sleep with them? Those answers varied by hit, but they were always correct.

Her interrogations were conducted at all hours, from the middle of the night to midday. She functioned on little sleep and less food. Her resistance never wavered, but at times her sanity did. She thought about escaping, of running away. In a brief flash of delirium, she dreamed of running home to Jack.

By the second month, they pushed harder and her resolve strengthened even more. She began to understand what they wanted, needed, to hear from her.

It came during one particularly long session, in the third hour, when they'd asked for the fifth time who she had been working for. They didn't want to hear about her loyalty, about everything she'd done for them, whether they'd asked it or not.

They wanted her to lie to them, to become a victim of circumstance and a feminine delicacy called her heart. If she admitted to weakness, to being a silly female, the investigation would be dropped. A slap on the wrist and she would be free to go.

Dropping her lids and looking up through her eyelashes, she answered.

"Myself."

Her interrogator, Gerard Cuvee, rocked back in his chair and smiled approvingly.

"For what end, Comrade Derevko?"

"For my family." Her answer was purposely hollow and defeated, exactly what they desired from her.

"Your…family?" He allowed derision on the last word and disgust crossed her features. She did not want them to become a pawn in this twisted game, but now that the line had been crossed, he wasn't willing to go back. "Your target and that little whelp?"

"My husband and daughter."

"And did you love them?"

She wouldn't lie and say no, but she wanted to avoid the truth at all costs. In a game of wits, one should never give her opponent honest insight. It would increase her vulnerability in the face of an attack.

"I was planning to defect. To turn to the American government for protection against Russia."

It was enough of a lie to suit her purposes. The thought had, in all honesty, never crossed her mind. She never intended to save her doomed marriage, to stay longer than the KGB required of her. She loved them enough to refuse to saddle them with her mistakes. It was selfish of her to run away, she knew, but she was a selfish woman. She always had been, and always would be.

"You were?" Cuvee leaned forward and let his hand linger over hers in a caress. He felt, she was sure, he had made a breakthrough. "Did you think he could protect you?"

"The CIA would have." She pondered. "I would have handed them your head on a platter. With relish." A small truth she allowed herself, and he nodded, accepting the veracity of her claim.

"And Khasinau?"

"Khasinau as well." Cuvee nodded, turning to the guards. He ordered her punishment, a week in solitary confinement and limited meals, in exchange for her transgressions.

"You broke his nose," Cuvee called to her as she was led away. "In defense of your child."

Irina turned and smiled thinly at him, gave a small nod. She wouldn't make such a mistake again and he knew it.

***


	4. 3 - Dazhbog

**DAZHBOG** - _A personification of the sun_

She blinked in the sudden binding light outside her dark cell. She was weakened from the lack of food, and definitely in need of a bath, but they marched her straight into Cuvee's office. He greeted her with the warm smile of an old friend.

He hadn't changed in the intervening years, his sandy hair flopped over his brow in an attractive, if not sanctioned, hair cut. His eyes danced merrily, but there was the ever-present hint of darkness in them. He dressed sharply, always aware of the image he presented. Even in this dungeon, he wore light slacks and a button-down shirt, every inch the distinguished businessman.

"Irina," He stepped forward, taking her hands in his and leading her to a chair. He motioned to a platter of savory meats and cheeses to his left and her stomach roiled from the smell. He laughed as her lip curled in revulsion. "You've lost your appetite. I'm sorry."

His gaze roved from the top of her head, down to the tops of her feet, lingering where her curves had sharpened under the force of her fast. His gaze was appraising and oddly hungry, but he made no comment or move towards her.

"You should eat something," he said again, in a softer tone, and indicated to the bread at the far side of the platter. "Bland. You need to build up your strength."

"For what?" She asked, unable to contain the painful gurgle of her empty stomach. She reached for a chunk of bread and gingerly tore off a small corner. She ate slowly, chewing thoroughly before swallowing.

"The rest of your sentence." Her head shot up at his words, the bread nearly slipping from her suddenly limp fingertips. She didn't realize…she schooled her features back to blandness but Cuvee had caught her brief panic and laughed.

"You didn't think that was all, did you?" She resumed eating stonily and refused to answer. "You're here for six more months, darling."

She swallowed another chunk of bread dryly and began coughing. He nudged a glass of wine in her direction and she sipped hesitantly, her face screwing up at the taste after so long. If she wasn't careful, it would go straight to her head and she needed her wits.

"I can," Cuvee continued. "Make it worth your while."

She quirked a brow. It had been years since they last talked; since they sat in his office in Moscow and discussed possible targets for her long-term mission. She had been youthfully exuberant, arrogant and full of her own self-worth. She had known, the way women know these things, that Cuvee desired her. She could also see that ten years, a child, and two months of hell had not diminished whatever he saw in her.

"You will," she began, shifting in her chair and bringing her shoulders straight. "Expect me to make it worth your while as well."

There was no mistaking her bland tone. But in its studied neutrality was disdain and light amusement.

"Only if you wish." Her face screwed up into a disbelieving grimace and at once he sobered. "I'm not going to force myself on you, Ira."

This time it was her turn to laugh, a rough and jagged sound torn from her throat. She seemed as surprised by it as he, and she touched her finger to her lip in thought.

"Think about it. You don't belong in this place." He stood and motioned for her to do the same. "Ira, the world could belong to you. "

"I don't want the world, Gerard." She said it quietly, but with force.

"You lie." He said with light laughter. "But you can't have them back. And tell me honestly, do you want them back?"

She paused, staring into the dark depths of his eyes before turning away. To say the words, honestly, would have killed her. Worse than knowing she could never have them back was the knowledge that she wasn't strong enough to ever see them again. Her want for them was physically debilitating. The thought of facing her betrayal in their faces was emotionally shattering. She was a coward. They made her weak.

No, she didn't want them back.

"Take me to my cell."

Cuvee watched her quietly for a second then barked an order. Immediately, two men came through the door and locked her up. Before they led her off, Cuvee stepped close behind her. His hand lingered on her belly, pulling her close to him. His words were hot puffs of air against her cheek.

"You'll never get them back. You've made sure of that. Think about my offer, Irina. I'm all you have in this godforsaken place."

***

For three days, she thought of Cuvee's offer. There wasn't much to it, just a half-baked promise to make her cooperation worthwhile. He also seemed to understand that which she tried to bury – that she was deeply wounded by the loss of the woman she had grown to become. Like cutting off an appendage, there was a phantom pain for all she left behind.

What Cuvee offered her was the chance to move ahead, to live through her regret and to emerge stronger on the other side.

Then there were the stirrings, the cravings, of a woman she thought long-since disappeared. At the first hint of power, of possible domination, she began to stretch. Like a moth to flame, that darker part of her personality rose up to meet the challenge.

_Take what he offers_, the siren whispered. _And make him your own._

In those dark days, as she wrestled with the various aspects of her life, she learned a valuable key to her future survival. Carefully, slowly, she mentally packed away every image of her child, of her husband, of her life and locked them away. Well-worn mental snapshots were dropped into a strongbox of her mind. Tears tracked down her cheeks with the knowledge of what she was doing. They would never be too far out of her thoughts to call them back should she ever need them, but far enough away that she could function. Far enough away that it would be her ultimate betrayal. She swore that she would never forget them and that had been a lie.

Exhausted, she curled up on her metal mattress and slept the healing sleep of a recovering mind. She woke 20 hours later and ate everything they brought her. During her exercise, she wandered the pen briskly and renewed the flow of blood, letting adrenaline wash away the lethargy.

Locking them away, it seemed, renewed her strength, her vigor. And handed her ragged soul to the Siren lurking just beneath the surface.

Hurt was still there, lingering, but it fed the darkness instead of hindering it. Each sadness added to the cacophony of pain that was her ragged heartbeat. A cadence to move to, to live by.

When she met with Cuvee again, she slid across his desk playfully, tugging his tie until his lips were centimeters from hers. The demon in her eyes matched his and when her tongue darted out to touch his lips, he smiled triumphantly.

"I'll take your deal."

The choice would prove to be her greatest achievement. She lived out her sentence in Cuvee's office, part of the time in his bed. He never forced himself on her, as he promised, so she took the reins in his seduction. What tricks she learned for her last assignment, she used on him. Drugged with sex, she let him sleep peacefully as she searched his office, gathered valuable information. She then returned to his arms and slept gratefully, requiring the warmth of his body to drive away the nightmares she couldn't contain.

He was making a killing in money laundering and some penny-ante blackmail. She had ideas, so many ideas, on how to expand his operation. She was crueler, smarter, tougher and more vicious. She would turn his thousands, she knew, into millions. Little by little, she insinuated herself in his work as well, leaving out the need for covert spying.

They became partners, in work and body. She began the habit of keeping track of their marks in a leather bound book, names and totals, and future information.

She called it her Bible and with it she took her first tentative steps to owning the world.

***


	5. 4 - Domovoi

**DOMOVOI** - _The protector of the house_

The air was sweet and smooth with the occasional sharp tang of fall. She chose the outdoor café for its location on the square. Hundreds of people moved past it in a day, a blur of color and sounds. The teeming humanity brought her back to herself, raised her out of the underground life she led.

Not that it was, by any stretch, a bad life. Her existence glittered with luxury; a Gucci bag at her side, a lovely white gold Rolex around her wrist. She had recently upped her personal security from one man to three and Gerard presented her with a new car. It was a Mercedes limousine, bullet-proof, loaded with extras. It came with an experienced driver, both in automotive and security.

Still, she couldn't help but rightly feel removed from humanity. So she sought it out in the odd café, a grocery store, a movie theater. Thousands of people living lives with the greatest intrigue being harmless secrets like…who drank the last of the milk, and who left the front door unlocked.

Easy, unencumbered, pale lives.

An untouched, probably cold, latte sat in front of her on the iron table, beside a rapidly hardening sweet roll of some kind. She wasn't hungry in the slightest, content to watch the world revolve around her.

There were locations where it is said if you sit there long enough, the entire world will pass you by at least once. She imagined this was one of those places, but would not admit to who she was waiting for.

"Laura Bristow."

She jerked as if struck, the words being as unexpected as snowfall in June. The voice belonged to a person she never thought she'd see again, hoped never to cross paths with. She felt his hand on her shoulder and she must have winced, as her three men appeared out of nowhere. The man was lifted easily and slammed into the ground behind her. There were screams from other patrons and Irina whirled out of her seat to look down at him.

"Arvin."

***

She contemplated having him killed. The three men holding him down would have easily disposed of him, making it quick and painless or torturous and slow, depending on her choice. It was what they were paid for, although she had yet to utilize their services. But there was chaos in the square at the sudden tussle and she ordered them to let him go, but to stay close.

Arvin coughed and straightened his shirt and she motioned for him to take a seat.

"Can I get you a coffee?"

"You cold-hearted bitch." She waved off the insult, knowing from whence it came.

"Don't bother, Arvin. I could sit here and call you a traitorous bastard, but where would that get us?"

"He broke when you left. And now I find you in a café in Rome, sipping a latte as if you hadn't ripped out the heart of my best friend a year ago."

"Fuck you. You're such a devoted friend." Her eyes flashed at him. He was hardly pure as the driven snow. She had collected information on Jack, the CIA and Project Christmas. She had also learned a few things about Arvin Sloane in the process, including exactly what how far he would go to protect number one. Then she paused and her eyes narrowed.

"How did you find me here?" He shrugged noncommittally and she understood. "You were looking for me."

He spread his hands in defeat and a small smile spread over his features. It chilled her.

"Does he…know?"

"That you're a traitor? Yes. That your life with him was a lie? Yes. That you're still alive?" He waited for her to nod, but she wouldn't. Her eyes were turned to the horizon, away from him. "No, he doesn't."

She didn't bother to mask the sigh of relief. He wouldn't be looking for her. He hadn't sent Arvin Sloane for her. She bit back the wash of underlying hurt, ignored the undercurrent of pain.

_Lock it away_, she reminded herself.

When she settled herself, she found Arvin's appraising eyes on her. He glimpsed her weakness and nodded as if cataloguing the information. Without words he dipped his weathered fingers into his breast pocket and pulled out a square. He handed it to her and after staring for a second, it was crumpled in her palm.

"I'm on a quest, Laura."

"Call me Irina." She quickly corrected.

"I'm on a quest, Irina, for the answers to the universe." She laughed at that, her eyes flashing. For as long as she'd known him, Arvin Sloane had delusions of grandeur. His eyes were notoriously bigger than his stomach and he was always trying to engage Jack in yet another scheme to lead to bigger and better things. That he should shoot for the known universe came as no surprise to her.

He opened his briefcase and pulled out a stack of papers. He pushed them towards her; photocopies of a very old Italian manuscript, it looked like.

"I cannot let you have the original, but I think if you'll read this there won't be a need for any additional explanations." He paused, obviously weighing how much more to stay. "I want to work out a deal. This...in exchange for that."

He tapped the stack of paper with a finger, pointed at her fist, still curled around the paper he'd given her, then stood.

"I'll be in touch."

He stood and walked away, one of her men following him across the square and down the street, no doubt making sure he didn't double back. Irina glanced at the stack of paper and shoved it into her purse.

"Bring the car," she barked and a second man jumped to do her bidding. When it roared up, she slid into the backseat and pulled herself deep into the corner of the plush interior. Making sure she was unwatched, she carefully smoothed out the small square Arvin had handed her. It was creased and in danger of tearing, but their faces were unmistakable.

Sydney smiled brightly, a front tooth notoriously missing from her grin. She sat in Jack's lap.

Jack. His expression attempted to be a smile, but it was completely vacant. He was gaunt and drawn, the pain of loss weighing heavily on him. There were balloons and gifts and she guessed it was her daughter's birthday party. She flipped the picture over and found one word in Arvin's distinctive scrawl.

"Enjoy."

***


	6. 5 - Matka Zjemlja

**MATKA ZJEMJLA** - _Moist Mother Earth. An earth goddess_

The letter came three months later, postmarked in Italy, although she knew he would be nowhere near there when it arrived. Enough time had passed that she'd read the manuscript four times, often missing meetings with Cuvee to conduct research on its authenticity. She met with four different experts, all of who told her the same thing.

Milo Rambaldi did indeed exist, and he's thought to be one of the most brilliant prophet/inventors to have ever lived.

There were artifacts spread across the world, each holding different pieces of different puzzles, each promising wealth and power to the bearer. Endless life, a deadly plague, lethal weapons, and even a formula for zero-point energy. The riddles, codes and puzzles were a challenge to her lagging mind. Her work was becoming tedious, lacking in the spark of ingenuity she craved. She wanted to expand their operation to work in weapons dealing, but Gerard was dragging his feet. It seemed he didn't have the stomach she thought he had.

But Rambaldi…

Reading Arvin's words, her stomach plummeted in fear, followed by the immediate speeding of her heart. She didn't even think twice about accepting; it was a given.

She would take Rambaldi first, in exchange for the protection Arvin offered, then rid herself of him. By that time she hoped she wouldn't need his help. She had the suspicion that he was more of a threat than an aid, but he would prove to be useful to her indeed.

***

She began building two weeks later. A beautiful home in a country village in France was the perfect spot. She immediately had the basement gutted and replaced with state-of-the art facilities. She poured money into climate control and high-end security. She wandered the town in her free time, inconspicuously spreading her cover. She was recently widowed, her son and husband dying of a strange tropical disease as they vacationed in Bali. She moved from Russia to escape the cloying memories, and put all her money into remodeling the house to facilitate her love affair with artwork.

Nobody questioned the construction crews moving through their town. There was nothing but overwhelming pity for the beautiful and exotic Russian woman. The men called her wounded, the women commented on her vulnerability. She was gentle, kind, and aloof. They were curious but knew enough about her tragic history to keep from asking embarrassing and possibly damaging questions.

When Arvin contacted her for their first meeting, her home base was complete. A business wing, a personal wing, and an underground compound so secure, she would bet her life on its impenetrability.

***

He couldn't help but marvel at the grandeur. A long, pebble-paved driveway wended through trees and pasture-land, spilling out into a large courtyard. The house itself wasn't massive, but what it lacked in sheer size it made up in its artistry. Double columns graced the front, sentries guarding the oversized double front doors. Protected by the elements by the wide portico was an intricate mosaic. Delicate in detail, a woman stood with her arms outstretched, flanked by two men on horseback. She was strangely featureless, save for her long ebony mane swirling to her waist. It was captivating and he stepped around it, unconsciously skirting the image itself as if it held some form of power.

At his knock a tall, slender woman answered the door. Arvin was almost, but not quite, surprised to see her wearing the traditional black dress with a white apron. He hadn't pegged Irina Derevko as a traditionalist.

She led him through a grand foyer into what must have been considered the formal receiving room. It was cold and unemotional and grandly expensive. He wondered how successful her little syndicate had become. Left to Gerard Cuvee, it never would have become anything more than small-time hoods doing small-time business. But the funding needed to acquire such a home…

"Arvin." He turned to find her standing just inside the doorway, looking perhaps more beautiful than he ever remembered her being. She was dressed simply in slacks and a blouse, her chestnut hair tumbling in waves over her shoulders. He took a step towards her and a man stepped out of the shadows at her side, but stopped when she lifted her hand.

The man stepped back, blending in quietly and Arvin nodded in acceptance. He had received the message. He was in her home and she was well-protected.

"Will you show me your home, Irina?" He asked amiably and she crossed the space separating them, holding her hand out for him to take. He grasped it warmly, allowing his touch to linger long enough for her to pull away in disgust.

"How's Emily?" Her tone was light but her eyes were stone cold. Another message sent and received.

"She's wonderful. At home. I believe Jack is out of country. She has Sydney for the week."

The mention of the little girl's name had the desired effect and Irina's spine stiffened. He continued to drive the needle deeper into her heart, hoping to draw blood.

"We love her so. With Jack...the way he is, she has become like our own. We think of her as our little gir-."

She whirled on him then, her eyes burning ice. His meaning was not lost on her, the portent of him getting his hands on her child almost too much for her to take.

"Is this your idea of protection? Don't attempt to threaten me, especially not through Sydney. Do it again, Arvin, and you can consider this meeting over."

"Emily and I are the only reason that child isn't in protective custody."

Her eyes narrowed coldly. "You lie."

"Occasionally, but not this time." He lifted the corners of his mouth into a smile, but it was cruel and cutting. "Jack was suspected as a traitor. If Emily and I had not taken little Sydney in, she would have become a ward of the state for the six months he was imprisoned."

He had the pleasure of seeing her pale, knowing she had not heard about Jack's time in CIA custody. She also suspected the truth, he could see – that he had a hand in it in the imprisonment in the first place.

"You need me, Irina. To protect them both."

Her words, when they came after a measured pause, were quiet. "To protect them from you."

He laughed heartily and reached for her elbow, pulling her towards the next room. "No doubt. Now. Show me your home."

***

She led him through the east wing of the home, through the kitchens and living area, to the long, majestic dining area. He commented on one woman's need for so much space and she only smiled enigmatically. They circled around and reached the grand foyer again, but this time she led him to a small unassuming door under the stairs to the second floor. She spoke clearly in Russian then raised her hand to a small recessed palm plate. The door swung open to reveal a staircase.

It was this subterranean level that impressed him most. He could feel the change in the air – cleaner, fresher and more sterile. The climate was also a shade cooler and drier than it had been above ground. Everything was some form of stainless steel or glass, giving the area a very space-age feel.

Security, he could see, was incredibly tight. Each air-sealed door was locked with voice and hand recognition, and all doors had to be locked before a second was opened. She led him through workspaces and past banks of the unwieldy and costly computers. There was a small bunker with a kitchen and several industrial beds, haz-mat suits, a limited sick bay and another computer.

"There are enough supplies here to support three adults for three months." She confirmed offhandedly. Arvin managed not to mention the small toy box tucked in the corner of the room.

They moved further into the heart of what he now considered a compound and stopped at a heavy vault door. She gestured to the guard who was following them and at once Arvin found himself blindfolded. Minutes passed in darkness before he heard the loud chunk of the tumblers in the lock before him. He felt himself being pushed into a bright room and he shielded his eyes when the blindfold was removed.

There was not much in the room. Steel and glass shelves, a series of glass cases. He approached the dais in the center of the room and his eyes widened and rounded in shock. She had not embellished her find with anything as precious as a velvet pillow, but it was stunning nonetheless.

Nestled safely under the heavy glass was a ring – its ruby glinting madly in the harsh lighting overhead. Painstakingly etched in the buttery gold were small inscriptions and symbols. And beneath the blood-red sparkle was the Eye of Rambaldi.

"Where did you get this?" He didn't bother to mask his excitement or disguise his breathy tone. The ring was one of the few artifacts he knew for certain existed, without knowing its exact location. It was said that the inscription held the key to a priceless, and still missing, manuscript.

"Have you figured out the code?" He asked harshly and his hand reached towards the glass. She struck quickly, slapping his wrist like a schoolmarm. When he glanced at her, her smile was innocent.

"Mostly. There are still some aspects that don't make sense but…"

"This is useless without the manuscript with which it belongs." He murmured, reaching again and caressing the glass.

"Which makes it exceedingly fair luck that the manuscript is en route to this location as we speak."

He could feel the blood draining from his face.

"You've made the mistake of underestimating many aspects of my personality, Arvin. In the past, you thought you could beguile me as you had my husband. You failed. You continue to underestimate my devotion to their protection as well. And finally, you underestimate my position to play the game as you've designed it."

She stepped behind him and the blindfold was once more draped over his eyes. She calmly led him out of the room, her words becoming his entire existence.

"I've read the manuscript you gave me and have studied it enough to know there are pages missing. I want them. And I want you to remember that I'm barely out of the gate and I've already beaten you. Do not make me an enemy, Arvin, or you'll regret ever introducing me to our friend Milo."

The blindfold dropped.

"Shall I show you the rest of the estate?"

He nodded quietly, his mind racing.

***

Once they were above ground again, she ushered him outside. A matching pair of blue brindle sight hounds stretched from their positions by the kitchen door and turned to flank Irina. They were long and lean and incredibly muscular, not unlike their mistress. She gazed down disinterestedly at the dogs, but stopped to pat each head. They followed the duo with long strides until they reached the grass and then both animals shot off. They ran with amazing agility, their muscles working under thin skin.

"They're beautiful." She murmured, heading away from the house and up a small stone pathway. "I acquired them simply as a way to maintain my cover – I walk them in the village – but I've come to accept their companionship."

They twisted along the pathway for several minutes before a large barn loomed in the distance.

"Another convenience to maintaining your cover?" He asked as she showed him the vaulted ceilings and immaculate stalls.

"No, actually. I simply enjoy riding." They walked out the south side of the barn and she stepped up to the fence. A dappled Percheron grazed quietly nearby and nickered when it spotted the duo. It trotted forward then stopped, snorting when it noticed that one was unfamiliar. Irina waved her hand and clicked her tongue and the huge horse wheeled on its powerful hind legs and turned to gallop off in the other direction. "I never had the chance to ride much in America."

"Like mother, like daughter." Arvin mumbled as they turned and headed back towards the house and their waiting dinner. "She never did get that pony she asked for. You remember, don't you?"

Irina didn't respond, but tucked her hands in her pockets and picked up the pace. Arvin followed suit, lengthening his stride to match hers. The sun was setting and there was a chill in the air. They were about to step onto the path back towards the house when there was a blur of activity and a small nicker of joy in the pasture. Instinctively Arvin turned towards the noise. A small, chestnut mountain pony was kicking up its heels in equine glee, racing towards the barn.

Arvin turned to Irina, his eyebrows touching his hairline. He had underestimated her. He'd underestimated her foolishness.

Irina shrugged at him and spoke dismissively. "They become rowdy at mealtimes."

She spun on her heel and disappeared into the growing shadows of night.

Dinner was nothing short of exquisite. Each course was served on delicate bone china, the meal itself delicious and artfully arranged. Irina explained that she had recently hired a new chef. They both knew what a poor cook she was – her cooking was infamous in their small circle of friends. Jack had always delighted in telling stories of how his beloved Laura had nearly burned down the house when trying to deep fry a batch of chicken. Covered from head to foot with baking soda, she greeted Jack at the front door shaking from fear and frustration.

She would always counter that he had tried the same trick nearly two years later, after becoming distracted while making toast. Jack's whole face would burn and their friends would laugh uproariously. They knew what, or should he say who, had been the distraction.

Arvin sidestepped his meanderings neatly and focused back on the woman across from him. She was as self-possessed as he had ever known her to be, but there was an edge to this new incarnation that, while not frightening, definitely made him uneasy. She was neither entirely vulnerable nor entirely cold. She was affected, in her own way, by what he revealed about Jack and Sydney, but it was an odd sort of stiffening of her spine, a deadening of her eyes. She kept children's toys and a small, well-tended pony. A contradiction.

He watched her spin her cut-glass flute in her fingers, the jewel-tone of the merlot sparkling in the soft light from the candles on the table. She stared intently into the deep burgundy liquid, her brow furrowed as if the answers to her entire existence were twined with the heady berry mixture.

She was…incomplete, yet not. Unfinished. Two women sharing the same body, separate but the same. It was the hidden, darker woman he was drawn to, with whom he made the deal. The woman who was fast becoming infamous as Gerard Cuvee's beautiful, vicious companion. She had fire in her veins and a glass-shard smile. She was a woman slowly but surely building an operation to rival any current underworld organization.

But it was the haunted, quiet, unassuming mother-figure, with dolls and ponies, symbols of pointless hope, and a mystically closed expression that unsettled him to the core.

***

She walked him out the front door and onto the portico. The night had turned decidedly chilly and their breath danced through the frigid air in puffs of white.

"The manuscript should be arriving sometime in the next few days. If there's anything of interest, I'll alert you." She wrapped her arms around her middle. They stood waiting for his car, which he was forced to park off the property. Just in case.

"And the ring?"

"When the analysis is complete, I'll send you a report." Two distant dots of light marked the slow progress of Arvin's car and he glanced down beneath his feet to the mosaic.

"What's the symbolism of this piece?" He asked, shuffling his feet so he was no longer standing on the woman. Irina followed his gaze and when he shifted it back to her, she was smiling.

"How's your Slavic mythology?"

"Fair." He narrowed his eyes, searching his mind for…

"Matka Zjemlja."

"Mother Earth." Arvin nodded, the information surfacing in bits and pieces.

"The most powerful and revered. An oracle, a settler of disputes." Arvin's Cadillac pulled into the circular drive and sat idling as the driver stepped out to open the rear door.

"The fertile mother."

"She protected her children. And her family. Her followers struck down any man who dared stand in her way."

"Jack is planning to test Project Christmas on Sydney." He spoke low, almost beneath his breath. Her reaction was swift and she teetered on the balls of her feet before regaining her equilibrium.

"He wouldn't."

"He believes he's protecting her." Arvin turned to get into the car but stopped, some tie of friendship still binding him to this woman. "He loves her unconditionally. Don't doubt that. He believes he's doing right by her."

"He's wrong," was her stony reply. Arvin shrugged helplessly then slid into the car. He kept his eyes ahead, unwilling to look back at the woman standing huddled from the chill in front of the house.

He'd looked into her eyes and seen the reflection of Matka Zjemlja.

Earth mother.

***


	7. 6 - Mokosh

**MOKOSH** - _The goddess who both gives and takes life_

The dregs of winter surrendered to spring twice over before Irina and Arvin met face to face for what would become the last time for seventeen years. True to his word, he had protected Jack from failure by pulling him close; recruited to an organization Arvin headed. An organization he was told was a rogue CIA unit. The lie grated on Irina, but she spoke no word of it. He was safe, as was Sydney, and in the end that was all that mattered.

Her partnership with Sloane himself, however, was not quite so impervious. They were friendly yet antagonistic, each unable to resist rubbing the nose of the other in their latest Rambaldi find. Caught in the clutches of a brilliant and mad mind, they raced against each other to find the answers. When they met that last time, he commented on her cooperation with Cuvee after so much time and asked her what it felt like to be his whore. She didn't even flinch, didn't bristle. The time had come and passed that she had to explain anything to Arvin Sloane. Especially her relationship with Cuvee.

It was an odd sort of co-dependence, a physical craving, a twisted friendship. They didn't live together, as Irina demanded her space, but they met often and she found solace in his arms for a little while. She knew it was because she was repeatedly drawn towards power and with her help Cuvee was one of the most powerful men in her sphere. She would stay at his side until he had outlived his usefulness, both as a friend and as stepping stone to her future.

Looking at Arvin as they parted ways, she held out her hand to him. They would supply each other with information when it suited them, but it would become a competition more than a partnership. Yet should he ever need her, he had just to ask. For within his grasp he still held the two things most precious to her.

Walking away from the meeting she wondered if she would ever be forced to choose between her obsession with Rambaldi and the two people in the world who kept her sane.

She knew she would. And she was sure she would fail them all.

***

That spring she had a series of incredibly close calls; close enough to make her wonder who was orchestrating them. Someone inside her organization, she guessed. She began an in-depth investigation of the men in her service, reviewing their contracts and their references. None drew warning bells.

In March, her limousine was bombed, exploding in a violent fireball. She lost two men that day.

Two weeks later, one of her men spotted an attack seconds before it happened. The attacker was dead before he hit the floor and they could not question him regarding his employer.

A month passed without incident before the closest shave occurred. Standing on the docks overseeing the movement of several shipments of arms from Hong Kong, they were ambushed. The bullet pierced her shoulder cleanly before she was pushed out of the way. One of her men, a young and laughing soul, took a bullet through his heart. He fell on top of her, his blood swirling to mix with her own. After the firefight, his friends tried to revive him as he lay with his head in Irina's lap. His eyes fluttered close softly and she stopped them.

The boy was dead and he would become a part of her. She cried for that boy, holding the hands of his friends, huddled over his cooling body and whispering a small prayer in Russian.

She tried to stand and her vision skewed, blurred and skipped and the ground rose up to meet her. [i]Blood loss[/i], she thought, as the world went black.

***

The funeral was a small affair held on the cusp of May. The young man was buried in the small town in which he was born in Northern Russia. The sky was clear and blue, not bothering to shed tears for yet another life cruelly taken.

His widow stood off to the side, clutching a young boy of about seven to her. Her knuckles were pale, and the boy's face pinched, from the pressure. She turned in time to see the tall, rangy woman who had been her husband's boss approach them. Her grimace turned into a snarl and before the woman was within ten feet, she was screaming obscenities.

"Bliad'!" She screamed, her voice catching when her son began to wail. "Yobanaya suka!"

The woman stepped closer and Anna felt her gorge rise at the site of the expensive suit, the glittering jewels and the undoubtedly expensive shoes.

"Bliad'." She said again, this time quieter, challenging.

"Your husband was a good man." Irina began, her hand slipping into her pocket to pull out a folded envelope. "He had three years still on his contract with me. I'll honor it and give you his salary."

"Your money cannot replace my Stephan."

"This has nothing to do with replacing him, but taking care of business. Take the check." She held out the envelope and Anna grabbed it, throwing it into the mud beneath their feet.

"Come, Viktor." Anna turned to walk away, but the striking woman was kneeling before the small boy, looking solemnly into his dark eyes.

"My mother says you killed my papa." He said, in the honest and beautiful way only a small child can say such things.

"Your momma is wrong. Your papa died doing his duty." She reached out a hand and pulled his unruly bangs out of his face. "He saved my life."

"He did?"

"He did." She started to rise, but stopped when the boy reached out a hand to her.

"I'm glad you're not dead." He said solemnly, then sparing a glance at his mother, he whispered conspiratorially to Irina. "My momma is just mad at you. Poppa said you were a great woman. I believe him."

Irina tucked a hair behind her ear and Anna saw, with a start, that there were tears in those large eyes. It was true that Stephan had an unhealthy loyalty to the woman before her. At times, she thought that maybe he was in love with her. Seeing her, Anna could understand how a man such as Stephan could fall for such stunning beauty. But more than that, there was a quiet authority in her, and the tender way with which she spoke to the small boy.

"Do you think my poppa still loves me?" Viktor asked, and Anna's throat clenched. She had tried to explain to the boy that his father was dead, not merely gone but…

"Just because someone dies does not mean they stop loving those they left behind."

"But I won't see him anymore." The boy sniffled and Irina dabbed at his tears.

"No, but he'll be there. Your Guardian Angel. He'll protect you and provide for you, even when he's gone. He loves you, little Viktor. I know it."

With that, Irina reached out and picked up the mud-stained envelope, wiping off much of the grime with her fingers. She smoothed her skirt as she stood and walked once more to Anna.

"Take this. He wanted you to be protected if something happened." Anna nodded, subdued, taking the envelope and tucking it into her purse. As the taller woman turned to leave, she reached out and touched her elbow.

"Who did you leave behind, Mrs. Derevko?"

Standing in the waning light of the afternoon, Irina looked out over the horizon, instinctively turning her body towards the west. She was silent for long moments, the only sound being the whistle of the afternoon breeze through the trees and the murmuring of departing mourners.

"Nobody," She finally whispered. "To them I'm dead. The worst kind."

She looked at the little boy then back to Anna.

"Without angels." She straightened then motioned her men to bring the car for her. "Contact me if you need anything."

Anna watched her go, holding her son's hand loosely. Some of her pain had diminished with the older woman's words, her anger dissipating with the sunlight. She pulled out the envelope and flipped it open, glancing at the check. She cried out in shock, her numb fingertips almost releasing the slip of paper. She clutched it to her chest, looking wildly from her son to the direction in which Irina Derevko had taken.

15 million rubles.

***

Irina never sought explicit loyalty from the people in her service, never desired them to eagerly lay down their lives for her. She paid them well and on time for their protection and hoped against hope that she wouldn't need it. Yet they still found her a "great lady" and she heard through Gerard that it was considered to be an honor to work for Irina Derevko. What she did for Anna and Viktor became the touchstone by which they measured all of her actions. They admired her strength – they had seen her personally conduct interrogation sessions that left grown men weeping in pain. Yet they also admired her…compassion.

It was not normally a word attributed to people like Irina Derevko. And it was inadequate to describe what it was about her that commanded the loyalty of the people closest to her. She was not overtly friendly to them – quite the contrary, she had the reputation of being a grueling taskmaster. Yet they watched and knew that she drove herself as hard as she drove those around her. She was not afraid to take up a gun to protect her own life.

She never walked away from her responsibilities. There were many women like Anna, whose husbands, sons and brothers were killed in her service. She never failed to attend the funeral, nor failed to produce a check that paid out her employee's contract. Or, if that was not enough, another two years worth of pay. There was no grandstanding, no expectation to be lauded for her actions. Most times she was treated as a pariah, one woman going as far as to spit on her. But Irina's quiet control, solemn authority and calm expression never wavered. She was…a great lady.

She never intended to amass such wealth and power, either. It was something organic to her, something that grew from her without conscious control. She had no desire to rule the lives of other men or to inspire a new world order. But it surrounded her, came to her without effort.

Without realizing it, she controlled a syndicate. An international connection of men who looked to her and only to her for guidance. Weapons, extortion, money laundering, political pressure and most of all, Rambaldi. Once he'd tasted the finer and harsher life, Gerard wanted to expand into drugs; that was where Irina drew the line.

The name she became known by grew out of a joke often told by her men. The men who knew she was Cuvee's partner, the men who laughed at Cuvee behind his back. He did not act like a man, according to them, but Derevko did.

In their relationship, personal and otherwise, it was Irina who was The Man.

***


	8. 7 - Paraskeva-Piatnitsa

**PARASKEVA-PIATNITSA** - _The Goddess of Health in Relationships_

Word of The Man's exploits began to circle the globe in much the same way the grumblings of a new Alliance emerged. It was said that this new Alliance, a series of 12 cells, each numbered as it joined, would eventually steal away the powerbase that Irina and Cuvee had so meticulously built.

Their focus was much like hers, but they were more heinous. Their lies were hidden behind more lies, employees believing that they were nationalists effecting world change. Beneath the shiny surface of patriotism roiled a dark and seamy underbelly, perverting everything they held dear.

Irina had lived a lie for so many years she could not stomach it again. She swore, in the darkest moments of her misery, that she would never be anything but herself. The honest darkness of her damaged soul was more pure than the false benevolence of those she worked against.

As an enigma, she would reveal only what others needed to know. Locked within her heart and mind were many truths she wouldn't reveal, and even more lies she refused to tell.

***

She had been away from her home in France for almost six months. On the go nonstop, her trove of artifacts grew by leaps and bounds. Her knowledge, however, stagnated. She had the sinking suspicion that she and Sloane withheld vital information from one another, leaving them both at a disadvantage.

She sat in her office, her finger toying with the handset, as she pondered the rationality of contacting Sloane for a meet. More than likely he would likely exchange a forgery for her information and she could not risk giving him the opportunity of leaping ahead. She looked up quickly when Cuvee entered, dragging a helpless young man by the collar.

"He failed." He shoved at the boy, who toppled backwards, slamming into the desk painfully. Irina shot out of her chair, hearing it tumble as she sprang forward, placing an angry hand on Cuvee's chest.

"What the hell are you doing?" She demanded, reaching behind her to grab the boy's collar and rough him into a standing position. She kept her eyes on Cuvee, her expression demanding an explanation.

"He botched a job and a shipment of munitions was lost somewhere in the streets of Barcelona." He spat, pressing against her steadying hand but making no move on the young man.

"And that's a reason to beat him half to death in my office?"

"Our office." He corrected, relaxing and turning to the chair. He watched Irina as she helped the boy move across the room, opened the door, and sent him to the compound's sick bay.

"Honestly, Gerard." She said, coming back to sit on the desk. "The shipment was a small one – the loss hardly noticeable. That's why it was given to him in the first place. He must learn to work for us, not to hate us."

"He needs to understand his place in this organization." As she had expected, Cuvee had become distracted by the expanse of thigh revealed by her skirt and began swirling small, soft circles in the skin. When he looked up at her, his gaze was hungry. She pushed his hand away and moved to stand, but he stood abruptly, caging her with his arms.

"So, I imagine, do you." She said, pushing him back and away from her, but he caught her arm and pulled her close to his chest.

"You've had excuses for me for weeks," He reached around her slender waist, allowing his hands to roam over her lightly, possessively.

"Then I'll tell you the truth. I don't want to." She pushed his hand off her again and circled her desk, heading back to the chair he'd vacated.

"You know, Irina, I've put up with a lot from you." His words were measured and cold, and somewhat amused. She caught him smiling sardonically in her direction when she sat and her brows rose in challenge. "More than you're even aware."

He moved behind her, his hands dropping to her shoulders and squeezing painfully. He pressed her into the chair and leaned over to speak into her ear.

"You call for them in the night." He hissed. "Do you even remember the nightmares the next day?"

She did, but she remained silent and still. She had hoped against hope that she had been able to contain what followed her into her sleep. Gerard's cold commentary assured her that she had, in fact, failed.

"For years, Irina." He relaxed his hold a little, allowing his thumbs to make soothing passes over her collarbone. "Don't worry. I've not done anything as silly as fall in love with you…or believe you could love anybody more than you love yourself."

He laughed at her sudden stiffening. "I understand you better than you know. You cry for them, not because of your love for them, but in order to escape your pain. They're the only people who can forgive your sins, the only people whose opinion matters. And it's your selfishness and cowardice that has kept you away. You can't face them."

"You have no idea what you're talking about." Her voice was rough, and her hand snaked up quickly to wrap around the index finger on his right hand. She bent it back roughly until he let go of her. She spun out of her chair to lean against her desk, her dark eyes meeting his.

"I know exactly what I'm talking about. We haven't spent 5 years as business partners and lovers without learning something about each other." He slipped a finger along the line of her skirt. "Like how your breath catches as you near your climax and you close your eyes tightly. Or the way your eyes flash before you make a kill, going bright with anticipation as the adrenaline surges through you. The way this vein on your forehead jumps when you're distressed."

"And on that you feel you know me."

"I'll never know you, Ira." He laughed. "Because you don't know you. You hide more from yourself than you hide from those around you. And I have never demanded, hoped for, or even wanted your love. I did, however, expect to have your loyalty."

This time she jerked, allowing a flash of confusion to cross her features before speaking. "What [i]are[/i] you talking about?"

"Arvin Sloane." He watched her face for a reaction, but she schooled her features into bland indifference.

"He was a friend of Jack Bristow's. I knew him when I was on assignment in America." She shrugged.

"You've been in contact with him."

"Not in years."

"About this obsession of yours. Rambaldi." Her reached out and tapped her knee. "You've had several close calls lately."

"Nothing ser-…You!" Realization dawned quickly. The clumsy bomb, the ridiculous daylight attack. The sniper in Hong Kong who only managed a clean flesh wound. "You're jealous."

"No." His normally easy voice hardened. "I can stand being nothing more to you than a body to use. You're little more to me. I can even stand being mocked by our men because whatever else, they're good at what they do and they're extremely loyal. But I won't accept _your_ disloyalty. You should have told me about Sloane."

"It was none of your business. You told me Rambaldi was my hobby, not to waste your time with it. I haven't."

"You should have told me that you made a deal with him to protect your family in exchange for your cooperation."

"It was none. of. your. business." She said through clenched teeth.

"You virtually hand over the paternity of your child to a man who is swiftly becoming our greatest enemy and you don't even bother to inform me? He holds power over you, Irina. Over us both."

"He has nothing."

"He has Sydney."

"Jack has Sydney."

"Don't lie to me, Irina. He's protecting Jack as well." He smiled thinly. "You should know that he spends more time with that child than her own father. He's grooming her to be his ally. That makes her your enemy."

She grimaced, voicing a concern she'd held for 11 years but never spoken aloud. "She was born my enemy. "

"And your greatest weakness."

She struck out at him then, not with a maidenly slap, but with deadly aim. It was not a passionate response borne of desperation, but a measured action meant to garner a reply.

He just barely ducked out of range as her hand whistled past his windpipe. Her other hand wrapped around his head, threading her fingers painfully through his hair and bringing his mouth to hers in a brutal kiss. He smiled against her lips and she bit him hard. He responded in kind, his fingers bruising wherever they touched, tangling in her hair, angling her neck backwards. She leaned back onto her desk, pulling him with her.

With his body and his hatred, she burned away the sharper edges of pain.

Of loss.

Of weakness.

***

Cuvee decided to become more involved, finding himself drawn in by the promises of wealth, power and domination. They mutually agreed to shift their focus to Rambaldi, watching over their syndicate only to keep it from dismantling.

There were far fewer close attempts on Irina's life. Cuvee believed his point made and Irina didn't bother correcting him. She would betray him in an instant and knew the time would come when it would be necessary. But she chose her battles carefully and she wasn't yet ready to throw away their partnership. He was still too valuable to her.

In a mountaintop compound in the jungles of South America, they made another incredible Rambaldi find. An artifact; a puzzle box. It took her nearly 8 months to unlock its secrets and another year to find the manuscript it led to. When unearthed it turned out to be a diagram for something known as The Circumference. There was very little information included, not even instructions on how to build it. It was yet another key to an unending series of mysteries.

Having no idea what it did or how it fit into Rambaldi's grand plan, she made it her mission to find out.

***


	9. 8 - Zoria

**Zoria** - _The Heavenly Bride_

_(apologies in advance for the fact that I have no translation for the butchered Japanese.)_

Between late 1985 and early 1987, several names begin to emerge as part of a tour de force in the sphere of Rambaldi. The fact that Arvin Sloane was one of them came as no shock to The Man and her organization. But the others were less well-known and almost all were linked in some way to the new SD Alliance.

Very carefully Irina and Gerard began hiring and sending out moles, spies, to infiltrate in and around these men, gathering intel on where they would be, who they were meeting and most importantly, what they knew. Information flooded in. They were ex-cops, nationalist, politicians, armed forces. They were recruited from every country imaginable. They were tied together through several large business fronts and many knew the others socially. The elite of the criminal element was a small clique of individuals, similar to any other select group. Everyone knew everyone.

Except for one man. A tall, blonde man with piercing eyes and a lopsided smile. His files listed him as German, but there was no record of him there as far as she could find. He was either a ghost, or simply as well-protected as she.

She knew she had to find out more about him, as an adversary. And she chose to do it herself.

***

On the southern tip of the Kanto region, west of the Tokyo bay was where she found him.

It was a small restaurant, just off the port of Yokohama. Bustling with the sights and smells of a restless sea dock, it was crowded and smoky. Women who looked barely old enough to be out by themselves lounged recklessly against the men, pawing and smiling, searching for a few yen.

She drew stares as she moved through the musty old place. She was tall and slender and, for the sake of her cover, walked with a heavy limp. Her chestnut hair was replaced by waist-length, pin-straight, ink-black locks. And her eyes, so round and bright had been finessed down to a more Asian shape. Anybody glancing at her would think her simply a half-breed whore, in red thigh-high boots and a scrap of a skirt.

She had intended only to watch him, to see who he met with. No interaction. Just observe.

He sat in the very back of the building, surrounded a group of men hunched over large plates of indistinguishable food. Smoke circled them, the German puffing on a large pipe that produced a pungently scented cloud. He was laughing, heartily, and slapping one of his companions heavily on the back.

Too forcefully to be altogether friendly, light enough not to cause alarm in the overcrowded space around them. The din of the crowd was too overwhelming for her to catch their words but as she slunk closer, the man's vivid blue eyes fixed on her and followed her until she had passed.

She dropped back against the wall in the corridor to the restrooms and cursed violently. Looking up, she cursed again when she saw him making his way to her.

"Konnichi wa," he murmured to her as he moved closer. He reached a finger out to trace her neckline and he smiled when she didn't flinch. "O-namae wo kiite-mo iidesu-ka?"

"Watashi no name wa Lily, desu."

"Lily," She had no claim to the name, but the word tumbling from his lips felt vile and she resisted the urge to curl her own lip in revulsion.

"Wa ikura desu fela?" He grinned, his hand now working lightly over her breast to her stomach and to reach around her back. She thought for a moment, quickly doing the currency conversion in her head.  
"3,000." She answered, letting her hand wander over him. He stopped her, circling her wrist with icy fingers.

"Wa ikura desu piston undo?" She imagined pulling the knife from the sheath hidden on her thigh and burying it deep in his heart.

"6,000." Her voice betrayed none of her disgust or anger.

She heard him mutter under his breath, then his hands slid to capture hers and he pushed her in front of him, towards his table.

"Ii keisu," he appraised from behind her, his fingers running over the curve of her hip to splay across her ass. Just before they turned the corner to the main part of the restaurant he pulled her to him and ground against her. "Anata no monko ga nurete imasu ka? Watashi no chinko kata."

"Echi shite kudasai." She begged softly, forcing her breath to hitch as a hand wandered over her breast.

"Later," He murmured into her ear and pushed her ahead of him.

There was a flurry of movement as she slid next to him into the booth and he addressed the men around him in English, his words definitely carrying a touch of the Reich in its timbre.

"Best looking whore in the place," he smiled, his hand dropping below the table to finger the hemline of her skirt. "Expensive bitch, but she begs for it."

The man continued on, his words a steady stream of misogynistic blather that she ignored as she studied the faces of the men around the table. They were almost all Asian; all but one.

Her world tilted on its axis and reality skewed at the sight of a bland American face, tripped into revulsion, moving from the top of her head, to her breasts, to where he could see the blonde man's hand moving rhythmically beneath the table, stroking her thigh.

It was a face she still dreamt of, years later; a face that still haunted her when she allowed her mind to rest.

Jack.

He would not recognize her, she knew. She took Sloane's word that he had no idea she was alive, no idea that her death had been staged. He wouldn't be looking for his wife in the eyes of strange whores, in a smoky bar off the bay in the Far East. He would see her, but not see her. She could watch him all night, breathe him in, and he would never know.

She was interrupted by one of the other men flagging to her, asking her why it was that she limped when she walked in. She answered quickly that it was a club foot.

"In those boots?" Another man asked, staring openly at the leather encasing her well passed her knees.

"My suffering is nothing to the pleasure of men." She said softly, hating the small truth in the words.

***

The evening passed in a blur of opium and sake. The men spoke openly around her, in languages varying from English to German, content that the woman at their table understood nothing. It was, amazingly, an SD meeting. They were discussing, from what she could tell, the plans to move a rather large money laundering business out of Japan and into American control. The blonde man, Geiger, was furious. She could only imagine that Jack's presence meant that it was Arvin Sloane who would be acquiring the organization.

As the discussion wound to a close, the group shifted and slid out of the booth. The men all scattered, but Jack and another Asian man followed Geiger and Irina out the front door. Unable to contain herself, Irina slid close to Jack in the frigid air and placed a soft, open-mouthed kiss on his chin.

"6,000." She whispered, rubbing her hand over him. He searched her face, her eyes thankfully shrouded in shadows.

"That's my whore, sir. Hand's off." Geiger said jovially, pulling Irina away. And then before she could react, his fist was surging upwards and meeting Jack square in the solar plexus. Jack was quick, but not quick enough, and the man continued his violent outburst, showering him with blows.

It was over almost before it began, Geiger calling to the shadows for his men to dispose of his fallen friend. And then he was dragging her into a nearby alley, his fingers tearing at her blouse.

"I'll f*ck you now." He spun her and her back hit the wall, pain jittering up her spine. Her eyes brightened, her mouth turned upwards and her body went very, very still.

"What are you smiling at?" He demanded when he saw her expression. "I said I'll f*ck you now. And I probably won't pay you."

"Someone," she said low, enjoying the confusion crossing his face when he heard her speak English. "Someone will be f*cked tonight, Geiger. But it won't be me."

She took advantage of his momentary distraction and pulled out the knife, jabbing it deeply into his side. He slumped against her and she pulled it out, warmth flooding over her.

"You bitch," he wheezed, clutching at her. He reached behind him but his gun was already in her hands. She pushed him away from her then, sticking out a foot to trip him when he pinwheeled backwards. She fell onto him, straddling his hips. They were half in shadow, their heavy breathing reverberating off the brick around them. She slipped her knife against his throat, and began to rise and fall rhythmically when she heard footsteps approaching. When a silhouette appeared at the end of the alley, she moaned loudly, arching her back. Her free hand guided his to her breast, and she moved faster.

"Sir…" the voice called.

"Send him away and I'll let you live." She whispered, moving still more rapidly and yelping again.

"Go." Geiger yelled to his man and Irina let loose a wild scream. She was rewarded with the backpedaling and dash of the man at the end of the alley. When all was silent she looked down and grinned.  
"Was it good for you?"

"Bitch whore."

"Now now." She climbed off his lap, still holding the knife just above his pulse. "I lie almost as much as you do; you're not safe. Cooperate, please."

He tried to nod, feeling the blade scraping his skin, and she was satisfied.

"I came here tonight looking for information. I thank you for affording me the perfect opportunity to get to know you better, Herr Geiger."

He flinched at the name and she smiled even more widely.

"Yes, I know who you are. And my employer…doesn't like you very much. I dislike you even more."

"What does he want?"

"Nothing, actually. This is for my benefit." She relaxed her hold on the knife. "Touch that man again, and I will kill you. Slowly. Painfully. And with great pleasure."

"What man?"

She relaxed entirely, withdrawing the knife and lifting her skirt enough to slip in back into its sheath, but didn't answer. No names had been exchanged; she had no proof that Geiger had known who it was that he'd nearly killed not five minutes before.

"You'll know him when you meet him. He'll remember you, for certain." And then she backed away, brandishing Geiger's gun. "A gift in his honor."

The shot was a loud pop, Geiger's scream of pain tearing through the darkness when his knee shattered. People flooded out of the restaurant and surrounded Geiger, his inventive German curses rising above the din. She was long gone before anybody realized what had happened.

He had no idea who she had been, that dark-haired woman from the alley. But years later, he would be reminded of Kanagawa '87, his associate Nagayo, and her gift in Jack Bristow's name. And he would repay it.

***


	10. 9 - Ved'Ma

**Ved'Ma** - _The Demon Goddess_

Something had been unleashed in her that night in Kanagawa.

Something deeper, darker and more perverse than ever before. The stink of the foul ocean, of sex and drugs and hatred had roiled around her. She would have killed him; had shot him simply to listen to the music of his screaming.

She spread pain to mask pain and ignobly fought to protect those her very existence betrayed. Neither Jack nor Sydney would appreciate the blood she spilt in their honor. They wouldn't thank her for taking lives for profit, in a race to beat Arvin Sloane to the final hurrah.

They would see only what she was. A bitter, angry, hateful woman, swallowed by the darkness of the only life she would ever hope to lead. No longer answering to a conscience or a soul, she would be unstoppable.

***

"Where is the manuscript?" She asked again, her face close to his. She could smell his fear. It was evident in the stink of his loosened bowels, in the heavy puffs of air as he struggled to breathe. His eyes were rolled back almost completely and every once in a while his body would jerk wildly.

She injected him again, just enough to keep him lucid, slapping him violently.

"Tell me."

He wouldn't, couldn't, speak. The dislocated jaw, the missing teeth, the small, shallow cuts tattooing his shivering body combined to put him in a place far beyond rational thought. He was in shock, the adrenaline she was using to revive him no longer doing anything but pushing his heart's rhythm towards bursting. His brain had stopped functioning thirty minutes before, but she had pressed on, hurting him to hear him scream.

"He's useless." She said, pushing off the chair. "We'll have to find some other way to acquire the information. Kill him."

And so, after 12 hours of grueling pain that no man should ever have to endure, he was injected again, this time with a mixture of Pavulon, potassium chloride and Pentothal, and within minutes he was dead.

She turned on her heel and stalked out of the room, waiting until she was alone to scrub a hand over her face. She was surprised to find it wet and she turned immediately to the bathroom.

The industrial plate-glass mirror reflected a face gaunt and gray under the harsh overhead lighting. She reached up to touch a smudge of blood on her face and it was then that her stomach finally rebelled. She heaved, barely making it to the toilet before losing what little she had for breakfast, ten hours before.

And then she was sobbing, her forehead resting against the cool porcelain. Voices would pass by occasionally, the sound floating through the thin walls. They were laughing. Some were joking about the prisoner The Man had destroyed. They were in awe.

She retched again, biting back a keening that had rose in the back of her throat.

Like a wounded animal, she retreated to the far corner of the room, curling in on herself. Her eyes drifted closed and she dreamed. Dreamed of rivers of blood and men screaming for release she would not give them. There was sex and blood, and the feel of the hands of men like Geiger, whom she drew to her with an easy seduction.

And off to the side, stood a man holding the hand of a small child. Horror was etched into their beautiful faces, tears tracking and pooling beneath them.

Betrayal comes not in a single moment, a single action, but in a series of instances loosely tied together, woven in an intricate tapestry of treachery.

She was not sick over what she had done, but over what she had become.

By losing Jack and Sydney, she was barely recognizable as human, even to herself.

Her focus had been lost along the way; her hope for uncovering the secrets of Rambaldi. She had become more wrapped up in the journey, in the destruction, than her goal.

Passing a shaking hand over her face, she stood unsteadily and walked to the sink. She scrubbed her pale face with water and then, hunched over the chipped and dirty porcelain, slowly opened what for so long had been locked.

Images of her family poured over her consciousness, soothing her racing heart and dancing nerves. A smiling child, who would now be a teenager, skipped playfully across her mind's eye, blowing kisses and laughing gaily. A dark-haired man with an impish smile beckoned her into his lap.

She cried again but it was a release, an unbinding of someone she'd held at bay for many, many years.

***

When she emerged from the restroom, she was composed and confident once more. The storm of emotion had left as quickly as it had come, flushing the toxic self-contempt with it. She had reasons to live, and reasons to die. That they were found in the same two people only made her situation that much more difficult.

Excessive emotion was a luxury she could not afford, be it in love or hate, passion or violence. The control had slipped…it had slipped months ago, in Japan.

She had it back. Cold comfort, iced veins, iron will.

Milo Rambaldi. He was the key to everything – her past, her present and her future.

She walked quickly to her office, her mind swimming with plans and calculations, as well as the resolution to return to her home as soon as possible. Surrounded with her artifacts, in her own space, she would renew herself with his genius.

She was drained, both emotionally and physically. It was time to regroup.

In her office she began gathering together what she would need. Disks, books, her notes, her Bible…

She looked up at a knock at her door, surprised to see a slight and fairly young blonde man leaning in the threshold. He smiled at her lazily, not even flinching at her raised eyebrows and darkening expression. When he finally spoke, it was with a heavy British accent.

"Cuvee sent me." He stepped forward into the room, taking a seat before asking. His gall shocked her and she stood a few moments watching him blankly before moving to her own chair.

"What, pray tell, for?"

"You need me."

Irina laughed outright, real mirth in the sound, the last vestiges of her breakdown melting away. It was the boy's turn to look shocked. No doubt he had never been quite so dismissed by a woman before. His expression clouded and darkened. She watched his fists clench and relax as he wrestled with control. Then his face smoothed, the easy smile returning, and he looked positively boyish.

"What you'll learn," Irina finally said at length, cocking her head to one side and surveying the boy critically. "Is that nobody is *needed*, and that everyone is replaceable."

"I'm the best at what I do."

"And that there is always someone better waiting to take your place." She smiled indulgently at him, surprised to find that she was resisting the urge to tousle his hair. He would not appreciate that, she surmised. "What is it that you do?"

"I've been working for Ellsbeth." He stopped and looked at her, obviously waiting for her to be impressed. She stared impassively at him, finally signaling for him to go on. "Drops, extraction. Back-up. A little smuggling."

"Ellsbeth is a small-time hood with a pedophiliac bent. He especially likes little boys. Tell me…how close were you with him?"

"Not that close." He hadn't even flinched. She smiled widely.

"See Franco. He'll get you set up. I'm leaving for a few weeks but I expect to find you exceeding my expectations when I return."

She slipped the last of the items into her case. She ushered him out of the room in front of her, locking the door and then watching the young man wander off down the hallway towards the armory. Cuvee often chose the men in their service, sending them to her for approval. She would test them, test their strength of character. She saw in the young boy what it was that had drawn Cuvee to him. It was a vast nothingness. Whether he was eaten away by pain or anger, he was an empty vessel waiting to be filled. And she would fill him with loyalty.

***

She had needed an assistant but resisted. Yet unexpectedly she found the man to fill the job. He was young, but that meant only that he could be taught.

And indeed he could. Andrew Sark blossomed under her guidance, losing the air of the street rat who stood arrogantly in her office and becoming, instead, her closest associate.

Irina Derevko never doted, but her attention to Sark was as close as she would get. Before long, in those first few months, there was hero-worship in his eyes and he, like everyone else, would have died for her.

***


	11. 10 - Veles

**Veles** - _The God of the Underworld_

Sark was revealed to be a diamond in the rough. Hard edges were buffed to a shine, aided by his unwavering thirst for power and all that it entailed. He was 17 when they first met, nothing more than a boy. Yet by his 21st birthday he was nearly as dangerous as she. Perhaps more, as he was unfettered by emotion, held back by nothing. He watched her with a critical eye and despised what he saw as her easy vulnerability.

Over time he had begun to notice the affectations of her personality. The change in her posture when they discussed her husband and her daughter. The small spats between her and Cuvee that occurred around the same dates each year; late March, mid-April and early June. Once, curious, he had done some research and found these corresponded to birthdays and anniversaries of her previous assignment. He learned, as had everyone he worked with, to steer clear of her around these times. Her anger was more exposed; he sensed vulnerability edged in violence. She broke a man's arm during one such occasion, twisting it easily until he screamed in pain and passed out at her feet. She didn't emphasize the action by anything as frivolous as a kick, only sneered down at him, shot a warning glance to the surrounding group, and stalked off. Sark smirked into his chest and swore he would never, ever fall into such a trap.

She trusted him, allowing him to appear in her place for meetings she deemed unimportant. There were whispers that he was her child, born while she suffered in prison over 20 years prior. She never refuted these claims, allowing him the protection associated with a blood tie to her. Twice he tried to seduce her, and twice she'd crushed him without effort. Claiming invulnerability and being invulnerable were separate entities and she recognized in him his desire for approval. He saw in her the mother he hated, but from whom he longed recognition. She twisted this and used it against him, occasionally making references to her own child. Constantly compared to a flawless specter, he strove to be the best.

He hated her nearly as much as he loved her.

***

Irina moved through the room slowly, her wine glass dangling from her fingertips carelessly. To the unpracticed eye she seemed carefree, unaware of the glances she was gathering. The midnight material of her dress clung to her slim frame, the matte satin material cutting across her chest to form a deliciously strapless ensemble. The column shape highlighted her lithe height and the small train puddle attractively at her feet whenever she paused to chat with someone. The room, however, silently begged that she not stop, for a healthy expanse of thigh was revealed with each second step.

To the unpracticed eye, she knew nothing of this. Those closest to her knew better.

She wore little jewelry, opting for the diamonds Gerard had given her ages before, one piece a stunning platinum choker with delicate filigree and a blinding gem. Her hair cascaded down her back in soft auburn tumbles, wisps occasionally falling over her shoulder. But she would laugh and toss her head, and it would fall obediently behind her once again.

Her smile was easy, her laughter tinkled brightly, her wit unmatched. Her eyes however, almond-shaped and vividly outlined in stunning black, were hard. One glance into their depths and her fortitude would not be doubted. Very few came close enough to her to see the veraciousness in her, as most were content to admire from a distance.

But one man could not resist her magnetic pull. He materialized at her back, a refreshed glass of Bordeaux in his hand and a cutting smile on his lips. He tapped her shoulder with the base of the glass and he was rewarded with a flash of surprise as she turned, before the curtain fell behind her eyes.

"The last time I saw you," He began, handing her the wine and clinking the rim of his glass with hers. "I watched through a haze of my own blood as two men dragged you away from me."

He surveyed her coolly, his glance starting from the expensive bauble around her throat to stop at her toes then traveling back to her face.

"I dare say time has not tamed you any. And certainly not Gerard Cuvee."

"Alexander," She answered his raised eyebrows with a smile and, to his surprise, leaned forward to kiss his cheek. Her fingers circled his wrist and tightened painfully and he resisted the urge to jerk away from her. "How long has it been?"

He cocked his head and shook his wrist free from her fingers. She let go without protest, her grin turning colder when he stepped closer to her, his lips dangerously close to her ear.

"Your husband and daughter are double agents. Does it run in the family, Ira?"

The bombshell had its desired effect. He could see the words as they charged across her synapses. Her back straightened, her jaw lifted and he immediately regretted his actions. She would kill him in that room, in front of one hundred people dressed in their finery, if she so chose.  
And she was dangerously close to choosing.

He'd heard stories about her, about how she had come unhinged in recent years. Most blamed Rambaldi, claiming that her fascination was quickly stealing her ability to keep her head in difficult situations. The ones who had known her all her life simply commented that it was an extension of who she had always been. Irina Derevko was well-known, almost revered, for her ruthlessness. For the ease to which she took to life with the KGB. No heart, no soul, it was also no surprise that she would take the world by storm.

What was not well-known was how easy it was to trip the last trigger. Her lost family was like a kill-switch, igniting a response that was swift and deadly. And very, very cold.

She turned on her impossibly high heel and strode out onto the balcony overlooking Rome. He followed her with measured steps, standing beside her at the railing.

"They spent five years and two billion dollars cleaning up the city for this night. For this event." Irina mused, her eyes tracing the skyline.

"St. Peter's will be open tomorrow offering a year's supply of plenary indulgences. Will you partake?"

Irina snorted at his irreverence. "How did you know?"

"I read it in the paper."

"About Jack. And Sydney." She corrected.

"I have a man in the CIA. Quite a coincidence, actually. He told me."

"And what have you done with this information?" She turned and leaned back on the railing in a relaxed pose betrayed by the slight twitch of the muscles in her arms.

"Nothing yet. I was hoping to find the appropriate time and person to whom I could present the revelation."

"Why would you install an agent in the CIA anyway?"

"An unrelated situation." He said, moving to stand beside her and rest against the railing as well. "You know how these things are. It helps to keep an eye on the enemy. It was a windfall to come across the information. I knew of two people who would be infinitely interested to hear it."

She stood lost in thought for a very long time and he nearly interrupted her when she turned to stare at him.

"Do you still think of them that way? The enemy? So long after the fall of the government we swore to protect, you still preach the dogma?"

He cocked his head and met her studying gaze with one of his own. He had known she was not quite the nationalist she claimed to be. She loved Russia because it was her home, but a part of her despised its government. She chose to work for them simply as a means to an end – an available path to the power she craved. That she was surprised at his internalization of the communist creed was no shock. Irina didn't believe in very much outside herself. Politics and social reform were definitely not included.

Rather than get into a discussion that would get them nowhere, he shrugged his shoulders half-heartedly. "You don't."

"No." She switched gears immediately. "You've been in contact with Arvin Sloane then?" She asked, and there was an edge to her tone.

"Not yet. Although not out of any loyalty to you. I just happened to run into you first."

"You are a bastard, Alexander."

"Once upon a time you broke my nose for using that word."

She remained silent, her gaze fixed on the room before them.

"What do you want from me?"

"A slice of the pie." She looked almost stunned at this.

"You want to…"

"Join your little syndicate." If she was offended by his easy dismissal of her powerbase, she didn't show it. He was a small man who wanted desperately for power. He was valuable to her only for his information.

"And what is it, exactly, I would receive from this deal?"

He smiled thinly at her, the trump obvious in his eyes.

"Unrestricted access to everything you'd like to know about your husband and…daughter."

***

There were three things Irina Derevko desired so totally in her life, and Rambaldi was but one. Alexander Khasinau's mole and the information he would provide proved to be too rich for her to pass up. She believed she held the cards, all of them, but she was wrong.

Without warning, several months after Khasinau joined, the balance of power began to shift and Irina found herself more and more often pushed out of meetings or discussions. They began testing her here and there, forcing her to prove her loyalty.

Her house of cards was shifting and beginning to collapse.

Her men were loyal, her reputation unrivaled, but Khasinau had tugged on the one loose thread that had the power to unravel it all.

When she received a fax from a Steven Haldaki, she realized the end had just begun.

In Rambaldi's distinctive scrawl was an image that she could not deny.

Familiar eyes looked back at her, ringed with a doomsday portent.

Time stopped and the cards fell.

And Irina had only one thought.

"Sydney."

***


	12. 11 - Perun

**PERUN** - _Lord of the Whole World_

If Khasinau and Cuvee sensed her shift of focus, they didn't show it. They continued to view and treat her as someone to be dealt with, but despite nearly twenty years of domination, they continued to underestimate her position. No longer relying on her organization, she struck out on her own. Since seeing the information contained in page 47, her research shifted. She was no longer interested in finding out what Rambaldi hoped to accomplish and set her sights on what it all meant. The prophecy, the greatest power, and Sloane swirled in her head. Past, present and future meshed together in a symphony of destruction so thorough she could hardly breathe for her oppressive fear.

*_SydneySydneySydneySydney_*

What began as a simple journey for power had taken an awful turn, becoming more cosmic and more intense as the layers were peeled.  
The most horrific revelation came when she finally understood that she was but an outsider - she had no ability to effect change. She could only watch, and guide. She would watch Jack watch Sydney be destroyed.  
She knew she would ruin everything, everything she had worked for, to spare them from this. It was the only thing she believed unequivocally.

***

She returned to her home in mid-2002. Ostensibly she was resting, having been winged in a firefight in South America. Truthfully, she was finishing up her research. Sark did not accompany her; she could feel his loyalty pulling away from her as he became more and more enamored of the power Cuvee and Khasinau celebrated together. He lived for shows of prowess and domination, unable to appreciate her subtle leadership.

Once her knowledge was complete, she planned to attend a meeting in Taipei. During the previous year they had constructed to Circumference and would now begin testing. She arrived to news that her daughter was enroute.

The time in those bare rooms and storage facilities would become an elaborate play within a play. Irina, playing to her daughter for the benefit of her business partners. They, in turn, pretending their own brand of loyalty, backing her up and pushing her forward. It would be the first time they had ever truly worked at cross-purposes. It was an elaborate scheme to confuse Sydney on the powerbase of the organization, as well as test Irina one last time.

Find out why she has come, they said, and then kill her. Irina could sense the unspoken request: Be at your most ruthless. The time had come for her to face what, in their eyes, had been the weakness she had been allowed to entertain for more than twenty years. Her protestations to the contrary would now be fully tested.

You say you never loved them. Now prove it.

Armed with a gun and a flagging shield around her heart, she walked into an empty storage room. Blue-headed and bleeding, the young woman chained to the chair was still so much the vivacious six-year old. The sight of the familiar brown eyes and slightly trembling lower lip steeled her will and it was without question or regret she raised the gun and shot her daughter in the shoulder. Blood spilled and pooled and there was a shriek of pain that etched across Irina's soul.

Without a backward glance she walked out of the room, down the hall and away from the facility. She slid behind the wheel of her sedan, drove 10 miles and boarded a private jet back to France. She trusted that her daughter would have the ability and sense borne of her father and the willfullness and lack of fear borne of her mother. The girl would be gone in twenty minutes and Irina...would be on her own. By the time Cuvee and Khasinau realized she had left the facility, she was in the air.

Rambaldi and Sydney. Jack. Rambaldi and Sydney. The KGB, contrived marriage, real love. Lives collided in a messy wash of blood and tears, new wounds and old pain. It was a coagulation of life blood, staunched only by Irina's singular will to fix everything. Not heal the world, not own it or even save it.

Sydney.

Jack.

She made several phone calls on the flight, ensuring an adequate cover story. She would be covertly assasinated by Sark as a show of loyalty to Cuvee and Khasinau. Her home in France would be destroyed and all the artifacts moved to a secure location. Power aside, Sark's malleable loyalties could be purchased for the right price. Word would spread that she was dead, the facility Sydney would eventually destroy would leave their organization in tatters. Irina's beloved Bible, the key to everything, would be lost in the shuffle.

Step, by precarious step she executed her plans.

***

She had not expected Sydney in Barcelona, although she wasn't sure why. It was naive not to forsee her child's tenacity.

It was also a prime opportunity for many things, not the least of which was a sort of mindless and vicious repayment of Khasinau's gracious friendship. A bullet through his heart seemed too easy, too quick. But the devastated and shocked look on his face was precious; the dawning realization on Sydney's of her mother's complexity was worth the throw-away action. Irina had placed the seed of doubt in Sydney's mind, the seed that would pave the way for future promises and admissions. Admissions that Sydney would not believe, or care to hear, but that Irina would make because she had been twenty years without confession. And she would unload the secrets of her life and heart on her daughter. Not for redemption, never that, but for the simple fact that she needed them to know.

Scooping up her Bible in the case, she brushed a hand over Sydney's head, six inches from actually touching. A promise made and a promise broken in that one movement.

I'll save you.

Sydney would not appreciate her methods, but the end result would be enough.

***

Before she headed to the joint task facility she stopped at a place that was indelibly marked on her brain.

The skid marks had long since disappeared, as much victims of time and erosion as was everything else. But the water still lapped at the shore gently, dancing beneath the sound of the wind through the evergreens. The sun still glinted fire, reflecting off unending waves. The world still revolved on a busy road behind her.

Removing her shoes, she stepped barefoot into the lake and waded to her knees.

Caught between an old life and a new destiny, she was once again alive. Hidden pains and lost dreams and enough regrets to fill the universe's vast emptiness twice over, she armed herself to face the past and recreate the future.

Ice and stone would protect her passionate heart and she would lead Sydney to her own destiny. She would lie, steal, kill, and cheat. And she wouldn't regret it - it was who she was.

She was a woman who tasted power and enjoyed it. Feasted on violence and sustained herself on the dregs of human nature.

Her heart and her soul were wrapped up in two people and she hoped upon hope that during this final trek together, they would bear witness to her truth at least once.

To hold her child.

To touch her husband's lips.

To fulfill their destiny.

To achieve her final will to power.


End file.
